Collections
by KnightedRogue
Summary: A collection of Tumblr and Discord ficlets and drabbles in chronological order. H/L, non-Disney compliant.
1. Dreams One

She dreamed the night the first Death Star blew.

She dreamed in violent colors, brutal and bright; a spectrum that hurt her eyes even in sleep. Starbursts of color, quickly rescinded but leaving an afterglow. Like a memory. A way to remember what was too magnificent to last in reality. A shadow of the brilliance; a less-vivid haze.

In daytime, she could rationalize the colors, their significance. The tragedy she'd experienced was beyond comprehension. Like a spectre one could only see in a mirror, she couldn't look headlong at her loss or she'd be blind.

In sleep she chased the colors. Pinpricks of fire: her father's piercing eyes. Electric blue: the Aldera Mountains rising above the palace walls. Sly, playful green: the Queen's Naming Day banners waving softly in the wind. Colors and colors and colors.

In daytime, she couldn't bear to see the colors. In her dreams, she couldn't see anything _but._

* * *

 _Author's Note:_ W _ritten for Erin Darroch_


	2. Ficlet: Flooded

Leia had reached the end of her joy.

Alliance personnel flooded every spare corner of the Massassi temple, drunken ebullience overwhelming and loud. Cheers and half-remembered victory songs echoed down corridors until even Leia could hear them, standing outside the Alliance procurement office. Someone had begun accompanying the songs with an instrument that sounded like it might be from an Inner-Core world. The resulting cacophony was hideous but the cheers swelled in response.

Leia turned to the procurement agent. The woman laid out a set of Alliance fatigues: drab, gray and lifeless. Atop the pile was a keycard for a standard-issue bunk down in the subterranean depths of the temple. And then a set of boots, unpolished and well-used. So unlike anything Leia had ever worn before.

"You're sure about this?" the woman asked, her eyes kind but her mouth twisted into a concerned grimace. "They offered you a safe-house. You could hide. You _should_ hide."

Leia lifted her chin. Jan Dodonna had said the same thing: take the safe-house. Live to lead your people. Be a symbol of hope. Do the right thing.

 _Do the right thing._

Leia squared her shoulders and grabbed the fatigues. "I won't hide," she said, grim and cold.

She turned and walked down the empty corridor, past the joyous Alliance personnel: fatigues, keycard and boots in hand.


	3. Ficlet: Sweetheart's Day

A long, sterile hallway, pools of light amid a larger darkness, and Han Solo stood at one end watching Leia Organa at the other. Early morning chill settled into the walls, whipping through the space between them, pulling at her clothes and the loose ends of her hair, braided and wrapped around her head like a seal against the outside world.

Her back was to him; he had time to watch her undisguised. Her fatigues were wrinkled, her boots scuffed and worn. He couldn't see her face, couldn't see the shadows he knew would be under her eyes, the tired, pinched look of her cheeks. But her stance, her clothes, her hair all told him that she hadn't slept.

He hadn't meant to run into her. He'd been heading to the mess hall for caf, to see if what Luke had told him was true. A better brew than usual on this Sweetheart's Day. The Alliance couldn't afford anything but slightly more expensive caf. No sweets, no leave, no time for the frivolous romanticism in the Alliance ranks, but hell if Han wasn't going to take advantage of High Command's rare consideration.

And then he'd stumbled onto her silhouette in the hallway and all thoughts of richer caf disappeared.

Three months since the Alliance had scored its first massive victory against the Empire and they had very little to show for it. Han didn't know anything specific—he was a contractor and no one thought enough of him to tell him—but based on the shabby interior of the Mon Cal battle cruiser out of which they were currently operating, he gleaned that the Alliance was strapped for credits. Moral victories don't pay the bills and High Command seemed loathe to resort to stealing and pillaging for supplies.

Except for Leia.

The princess had agreed with him on the stupidity of the Alliance emphasis on _clean warfare._ She'd asked him about Imperial storehouses and he'd gladly supplied whatever information he had. There was the one near Dubrillion, the one near Saddleback Station on Corell. The hotspots that criminals of his kind knew and abused on a regular basis. And she'd taken the information to Jan Dodonna, offering to raid the stores herself with a small group, to get her hands dirty and do the work herself.

Dodonna had denied her request, said he was shocked that the princess of Alderaan would resort to such base tactics. The Alliance needed good publicity; whatever desperate tactics they'd sanctioned before were no longer good for public relations.

But Han… well, Han understood. Because Leia had nothing. No one. And she herself was desperate. If someone destroyed a homeworld, didn't they deserve to lose something, too? Not just the weapon itself but _everything?_

As someone who'd seen the back end of desperation more than a few times in his life, he knew how it looked. And he knew how it festered in the gut, how it roiled and raged until released.

That's how she looked now, he thought. Like the seal might pop at any moment.

"Happy Sweetheart's Day, sweetheart," he said into the cold air.

Her back stiffened and she turned her head to the side just enough for him to catch her profile but not enough to see her eyes.

"Go away, Captain," she said.

Han grinned to himself, happy with her fire. "What has Her Highness planned for her date tonight?"

She turned her face back to the viewport in front of her, a princess-shaped outline against the stars. "What date?" she said.

Her voice sounded brittle and bitter. Like one good hard kick might end her. But Leia Organa wasn't a total mystery to him. He didn't understand her idealism, he didn't understand her passion for peace and justice and freedom. Her pedigree or whatever the hell the goddamned kings and queens of the galaxy called it. Whatever made some people better than others.

But he understood strength. He understood courage.

"Lemme guess," he baited. "Antilles?"

 _That_ provoked a reaction. She turned around to give him a narrow look. " _What_ are you going on about?"

"Not Antilles," he said to himself but loud enough for her to hear. "What about Preytr? She's got a mighty big crush on you, you know."

Leia lifted her chin. "Nice eyes, too," she said after a moment.

Han was thrilled. A response! He had assumed this was going to be a one-way banter. "Sure does."

Han waited a beat, holding her eyes, and then Leia's mouth turned up into a reluctant smile. Soft and … not inviting. Not anywhere _near_ inviting. But friendly. And Han relaxed his stance a bit.

"Unfortunately for Lieutenant Preytr, I despise Sweetheart's Day," Leia said. "It's sentimental and ridiculous. I don't have time for such things."

Han pressed his lips together and nodded. "Unfortunate for all of us. I bet royal dates are really something, huh?"

And then a smile, a genuine smile, from the depths of her small body, and Han's heart stuttered to a halt right then and there.

"You have no idea, flyboy," she said.

She turned back around to resume her vigil of the stars and Han knew that was his cue to leave. Still warm with the shock of her smile, he nodded to himself, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and took a few steps back. He was just about to turn and leave her alone when he heard his name, issued from the woman at the far end of the corridor.

The one he already knew he adored. The only one that made his blood run hot, made his brain fry in ways he'd never thought it could. The only one that could make him duck and turn around and leave her to her own devices because she'd damn well proved she could handle it all, everything, without needing anyone else.

What he'd _wanted_ to say to her was that he hoped she found distraction tonight, distraction from her unholy loneliness and pain. In Antilles' arms or Luke's or Peytr's—though he thought he knew her preferences by now, as pretty as Preytr's eyes were—but he wanted her to smile like that again. To whomever she wanted, with a friend or a lover or just the viewport in front of her. He wanted her to get a break from herself, whatever that meant for her.

"Yeah?" he asked instead.

She clasped her hands behind her back, tilted her chin up and said, very softly, "Happy Sweetheart's Day."

He nodded though she couldn't see it and turned around, walking away, imagining what it might feel like to hear her say that again, for real.

 _It'll never happen,_ he reprimanded himself, and went back to the _Falcon,_ slightly-better cup of caf completely forgotten.


	4. Ficlet: Sick

"You look awful," he said.

Leia wanted to kill him. Of course she looked awful; she felt awful. Her ears had a squadron of X-wings roaring their engines at full strength between them. The pounding in her temples had become a continuous percussive line to the activities of her day. Every joint in her body ached and she was sure she'd discovered a few new joints she hadn't known existed. A large animal was sitting on her chest, though no one could see it, and it made today's confrontation with Captain Han Solo a perilous affair: she feared her response might be just one long wheeze.

He stepped closer. "Are you sick?" he asked. "You look sick."

"Sign the roster, Captain Solo," she dodged. She winced when his last name ended in a cough. To recover, she said, "I don't have time for your cuteness today."

His eyebrows rose. "My cuteness?"

Even near death, she could roll her eyes at him.

"If I ever decided to be cute, you'd sure as hell know it," he quipped. He leaned in toward her, towering: in her space. Dangerously close to whatever parasite was slowly eating away her respiratory system. "What'cha got, Highness? Gamorrean flu?"

Leia shook her head. "I'm not ill."

He nodded. "Sure. Corellian plague?"

"I thought that was _you_."

"Ah, now that's cute," he said, pointing his index finger in her face. "Bimorrean fever?"

 _Can humans even get Bimorrean fever?_ Leia wondered, distracted despite herself. "Please sign the roster," she said instead.

Han cocked his head to the side, still close. He seemed to consider her for a moment, then wordlessly reached down and grabbed the roster from her hand without breaking her gaze. Leia was relieved when he took a step away from her, putting a few meters between them. He looked down at the datapad as he signed his name and then held it out to her.

She should have seen the trap. If she hadn't been actively dying, she would have. But in her compromised state she thought nothing of stepping close to him and reaching for the datapad. Quick as a whip, Han moved the datapad out of her reach and pressed his free hand to her forehead.

And only because she was dying—not because the warmth of his hand felt glorious against her skin or because something about the concern in his eyes made her feel warm in a non-feverish way—she didn't slap his hand away. She didn't move. She stood far too close to him; his hips were just centims from her abdomen. His breath whispered against the hair at the top of her braid.

Only because she was dying did she close her eyes and give into the comfort of letting someone see her humanity.

"You're running a fever," he murmured above her.

She bowed her head to get his hand off her forehead, to get rid of the evidence. "No, I'm not."

"Uh-huh," he said. "You're warmer than midday on Tatooine. In drought season."

"No, I'm not," she repeated.

"Alderaanian humans got a different biology than the rest of us?" He bent his knees and tried to catch her lowered eyes. "Go to medical, Leia."

His eyes. Leia got caught in them, the worry so clear to her in her fever-addled state. What she would normally dismiss as Typical Solo Irony was obvious concern for her well-being right now, when her guard was down and her defenses were sluggish. Her usual cynicism was slow. His eyes were so green today, blisteringly warm on hers. It reminded her of family, of concern, of annoying protectiveness, like her father but so _not_ like her father.

A long moment followed. To Leia it was just a second, her eyes soft on his as she wondered at his motivations. Something she had been doing much more often lately while they danced around each other, base after base, year after year. Her brain got stuck on this point, circling it like a scavenger circled prey that hadn't yet died. Around and around, narrowing and widening and narrowing again, but always with the backdrop of the concern in Han Solo's eyes.

"Uh, Princess?" he said, and Leia realized just how long she'd been staring at him.

Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes. "I'm not ill. I just ... need some rest."

Leia stepped away, her eyes still on the ground. The outside world suddenly barreled in, the sounds of the Alliance war machine in use: pilots shouting around them, the cold air whirling angrily between them. She shivered, the discrepancy striking between the heat of the moment between them and the reality of the base.

"Thank you, Captain Solo," she said, nodding and turning away.

Her footsteps were hurried as she moved away from the captain and the chaos of that moment, boots crunching in ice and snow as she reached the main corridor to the command center. She mumbled to herself, nonsensical words spewing under her breath with the rasp of her sore throat.

 _What the hell were you doing, Organa?_ She was more focused than that, even while sick. She could hand Han Solo his ass on her deathbed; she'd done it before and she'd do it again and she would not let his deceptively concerned eyes throw her off her game.

The corridor widened as she trundled through, coughing and wheezing. Antilles tried to throw her a welcoming grin that quickly turned into a grimace as she passed. She wasn't sure if the grimace was because she tried to smile back or because her _good morning, Wedge_ had sounded like an asthmatic ventriloquist was speaking from behind her.

The command center bustled as she walked in and the activity was uplifting. Work was her bacta, work would make everything better. She just needed to put the encounter with Han from her mind. She just needed—

"Your Highness," she heard.

Startled, she turned to see General Rieekan behind her, an old, comforting smile on his face. Careful, like a polite friend. Not at all the flash-burn of Han's eyes. His hands were clasped in front of his body and his parka looked well-worn.

"Carlist," she greeted him. Had she seen him yet this morning? She couldn't remember. "The pilot rosters are all signed. I'll enter the data and then I'll start in on the intel packets from the Rogues."

He nodded, pursing his lips. "You know what? I think I'll have Arlen take over the packets today."

Leia gave him a confused look. "Why? I have them prepped. It won't take any time at all."

"Arlen," he said, turning to look at a woman on the far side of the command center. "Could you please collate the Rogues' intel packets?"

The woman agreed and Leia gaped. "Carlist," she began. "I'm perfectly-"

"With all due respect, Your Highness, you will be reporting to medical," he said.

Leia knew his tone was kind but all she heart was _medical medical medical._ Her indignation won the fight against her better nature. "No, Carlist. I don't need to go to medical. I'm not ill."

She wracked her brain to try and remember if she had coughed in his presence, or moaned against the ache in her back. If she had displayed anything other than that slightly-disturbing lower pitch in her voice. If she had done anything to clue him into how awful she felt.

Why would he send her to medical?

He cleared his throat and reached out his arm, a small datapad in hand, offered to her. "I received this message from Captain Solo a few minutes before you arrived," he said. "Let's not infect the entire Alliance, Princess."

With dread, Leia took the datapad. In clear Aurabesh letters Leia could read the words through the haze of her own fever.

General. Royal is feverish. Send her to medical.

Leia scowled. Damn the pirate and his traitor worried eyes. "Carlist. I'm. Not. Ill. I don't need to go to medical."

He nodded but softly nudged her toward the entrance of the command center. "I know you think so, Princess. But if Solo was worried enough to send me a message like that, I'm going to follow his advice. Go to medical."

Leia huffed but allowed herself to be guided down the long corridor between the command center and medical, thinking the entire way that she might just have to kill Han after all.


	5. Ficlet: Crumble

Han Solo had been dreading this moment for a year and a half. Crumbling rock walls lined both sides of the passage in which they stood, debris rained down from the ceiling, the dust swelled and choked him, the earth shook beneath his feet… and all he could think was _I knew it would come to this._

Not death. _Falling._

She was so close to him. He could see individual eyelashes, could see a strand of her hair that had fallen out of the nest of braids wrapped around her head. Eyes like fire, lips like a brand. He wanted her; _had_ wanted her for months now, since the moment he'd spied her outstanding courage, her unfathomable wit and strength. Wanting her was nothing new.

Beautiful, tortured, ruthless Leia Organa. How could he _not_ want her? She was larger than life, a giantess of myth, a pillar of fucking royalty.

And if she'd been _just_ that, he might have been safe. But he'd met her in the depths of an Imperial detention block. And she'd shouted orders at him and taken charge of her own rescue and had made him sputter and rage and want in a way he never had.

And as the walls crumbled, as the dust rose, as he watched her eyes blink and find his in all their beautiful ferocity, he knew that it was over.

He loved her. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"We have to get out of here!" she shouted.

He nodded, grabbed her hand, pulled her with him in the direction of the _Falcon._ They'd get out, they'd fly away, they'd escape as they always did. She might not even realize that a fundamental shift had occurred. Oblivious, she'd return to business as usual, writing his name on the duty roster without a second thought.

But it was over. He'd fallen, crumbling like the walls around them. And he suddenly realized that he'd never, ever, felt so alone.


	6. Ficlet: Advice

So you think you've loved somebody before?

You haven't.

The wide canyons of heartache, the effusive heights of confession, the dizzying grip of a hand in yours that you want to be welded there infinitely. The feeling of home, of belonging; the sheer terror at the thought of losing that home in a flash-bang moment of accident or a long, consuming illness.

The mystery of it all, the endless questioning: motives and meanings and thoughts and feelings. Things you know but don't yet _know._ And you only pick them up as you go because you're still a kid and you're going to have to learn a hell of a lot from her.

You're gonna learn about courage, real courage, not just blind indifference to your own mortality. You're gonna learn about heart, and pain, and sacrifice. Trust. Belief in a larger power. A whole galaxy of information you didn't know you needed. A whole universe of kindness and goodness because people really are good, though you haven't seen it yet. They are. _She_ is.

You're gonna learn about family.

Why they're important, why people have them. Why people kill for them, die for them. Why people devote time and space and credits and their lives to them. It's unfathomable now, sure, but you'll see.

And you'll learn about the pride of a long love, of decades together in a harmonious querulousness that stymies everyone but the two of you. Nothing will be new anymore and there's a kind of excitement in that, too. You're a head-on speeder collision of commitment and trust issues now, but you'll figure it out.

You have no idea what you're about to do. If you kiss her, you're going to fall harder and faster than you ever thought possible. It's going to consume you. You will balk at its suddenness and you'll try to cling to your old life but no, guy. No.

You're about to fall, headfirst and fatal. And you should do it anyway.


	7. Ficlet: Blame

_This ficlet is M-rated for sexual content._

* * *

 _Oh._

His hands tightened on her hips, his breath hissed in her ear. One hand swept from her hip, across her torso, warm, flat against her breast. She pressed back against his hips, their rhythm deep, hypnotic. Exultant. The sheets bunched against her knees unevenly, the fabric against her skin felt rough.

 _Oh._

His lips on her temple, soft. His chest against her back, strong. The deep rumble of his voice, hitting her deep in her stomach, a primal reaction that she couldn't help. It was the most dangerous place she'd ever been, in bed with him, consumed and falling when she knew she shouldn't. When she knew distance was much safer.

 _Oh, but._

But he cared, she told herself. The way he holds her, the way he takes her in, watches her, _loves_ her. No one could fool her that well. No one could invest this much time, risk his life for her, hang onto her with so much desperation and not feel anything. The way he says her name like a prayer, like absolution. The way he—

 _But._

Her heart stuttered in her chest. Yes, he could deceive her. Yes, he could lie. He could hold her with naked adoration and still leave. Her own hopeless fall could be nothing to him.

 _And._

And there was nothing she could do. His lips, hips, heart could be hers for a moment and he could still leave. _Would_ still leave.

He was still leaving.

She closed her eyes, out of the moment, her head destroying the only reprieve she had from these thoughts. His breath still whispered against her temple, the sweetsour feeling of his arm tight around her torso, his hoarse cries.

He rearranged their bodies without her realizing it, too caught up in her own struggle. He wrapped his arms around her, murmured into her ear, folded everything he was around everything she was. She wanted to imprint the feeling into her brain for a darker day, when he left, when she was alone. If this was all she could have of him, she would cherish it. Wasn't it better to know? Instead of constantly wondering?

She wouldn't confess anything. She'd keep her mouth shut. They'd enjoy this interlude, and he'd leave, and in the months and years after she'd think of him fondly. The ache would disappear with him, eventually. Someday this feeling would fade. Someday the mystery of his fate wouldn't haunt her.

 _Oh, Leia,_ she thought. _You were supposed to be smarter than this._

 _But,_ she answered herself, _he cares. This wasn't a mistake. I had to know. I needed to feel this._

 _And,_ her better self replied, _what good has it done you?_

Leia blinked, settled her forehead against his neck, tried to memorize the slowing rhythm of his heart.

 _I didn't have a choice,_ she thought. _I love him. I had to know._

And her darkest voice whispered to her, intruding on the only home she had left, the one she'd found in him though she couldn't tell him that.

 _Then you have no one to blame but yourself._


	8. Dreams Two

She dreamed the night Han was put in carbonite.

She dreamed of ephemeral shapes, tangible things she could not touch. An object, real and substantial, with clear lines and shadows and three dimensions. A comm: a caf mug: an Arallute. Small things, with textures and weight and shape. Fascinated, she reached for them but her finger tips slid through air, as if their permanence had been erased.

In daytime, she touched. Air blew on her eyelashes, her feet pressed into deckplates, the _Falcon_ 's holochess table was cool beneath her fingers. She existed and the things existed. Real was real.

But in sleep, nothing had form. The laws of physics didn't govern the galaxy. The objects she should be able to grip in her fists withered away in her grasp. She wanted to hold them, desperate to cling to the only real she had left. But quarks jumped out of existence as she neared and somehow, _somehow,_ she knew why.

In daytime she could remember the touch of his skin. In her dreams she wandered the galaxy unable to remember what he felt like.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Written for Erin Darroch._


	9. Drabble: Kiss

Kissing Han for the first time is like putting her hand on a lit fusion cutter. She shouldn't do it. But the color is mesmerizing. She _feels_ again. And it's addictive.

Kissing Han before he is frozen is like pressing her hand to a block of ice. It is going to disappear. It is going to leave her. And she wants the pain of it so badly that she'll scream for it.

Kissing Han after he is rescued is like touching a star. It's impossible. But so is breathing. And so she holds him close and doesn't let go.


	10. Ficlet: General

General.

Leia was having a difficult time connecting the rank to the man sitting at her side. She wasn't used to her brain failing her, and this was one critical juncture where she could really use a coherent thought.

"My team's ready. I don't have a command crew for the shuttle."

But no. Her brain was a panicky spiral of flattery, love, confusion and suspicion. And while this man, _this wonderful, infuriating man_ , had always inspired a storm in her head, the circumstances were completely unprecedented.

Chewie growled, something like: _You'd last five seconds if I didn't go with you._

A general. He'd committed. After three years, after Yavin, Ord Mantell, Hoth, Bespin, he'd finally agreed to join. And, beyond that, he'd accepted a commission.

 _General Solo._

"That's one," Han said, and her brain snapped into focus, the correct lens shifting into place. He was leading the ground command on the moon. He needed a command crew for the shuttle. It was dangerous and she was absolutely qualified to help.

"General," she said, relishing the title. He looked at her and she wondered what on earth he was thinking. "Count me in."

The secret part of her, the one with emotions, wanted to bend this into some sort of demonstration of his commitment to her, as if signing a commission to lead her Alliance into battle was a nice gesture of his intentions. That seemed ridiculous. This was war and he was Han Solo.

Still. Part of her knew this had something to do with _her._

Ten minutes later, briefing concluded and all but High Command excused, Leia followed Han out of the theatre. Chewie growled about the _Falcon_ and Leia crept between him and Han to turn in the opposite direction. "General?" she said, and then turned to look at him. "A word, please?"

Han eyed her, then shot a grin to the Wookiee. "Duty calls, pal. I'll be there in a few."

Chewie whuffed in amusement, then turned and lumbered away. Leia resumed her steady march down the corridors of _Home One_ , heart fluttering in her chest but maintaining her cool exterior. Within moments they approached the hatch to her temporary office and then, suddenly, they were alone in harsh lights and a barren room.

Leia turned around to face him. "General," she said. "Certainly took you look enough."

His expression didn't change. "Got a little sidetracked for a while there," he said. "Would have happened sooner without my layover on that infernal dustball."

 _Sooner_. Leia's chest felt tight. "Is that so?"

A slow smile drew up the side of his mouth. Leia had the strongest urge to kiss him. "Yeah," he said and stepped close to her. "Turns out you guys need leaders with some brains in their heads."

Her words from a year ago, before Hoth. Before he'd kissed her, before they'd slept together, before she'd told him she loved him. Twice. She nodded. "We do."

"Well, then," he said, and put his hands on her hips. "Seemed like an easy enough thing to do."

Leia closed her eyes, a little overwhelmed. She knew next to nothing about Han's past, but she knew plenty about the kind of man he was. Actions spoke much louder than words for him. So while she may have said the words, he was trying, in his own oblique way, to repeat them back to her. "Thank you," she whispered, opening her eyes and looking up at him.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close and rested his chin on top of her head. "Sweetheart, don't thank me yet. I may be shit at this."

She laughed quietly, still tucked into him. "You won't be," she said. "And when you're brilliant at it, I'll be there to rub it in your face."


	11. Dreams Three

She dreamed the night the second Death Star blew.

She dreamed of music, soft, rising in the air like embers. Lilting melodies, full, harmonious. A breath in her ear, warmth on her skin. Like silk against her palm but in fractals of sound: comforting. Songs that she knew, from Alderaan, from the Alliance. The thoughtless hum as a pilot worked on his ship. One musical movement with thousands of parts, one for every single being in the galaxy, alive or dead. Enormous and intimate, the most beautiful sound.

In daytime she awoke to starkissed skin, the warmth of a familiar set of arms, the muffled murmur of her name against her ear. Vivid green eyes peeked from a nest of eyelashes, the hint of an upturned lip, a basement-low rumble against her chest: _don't have to be up yet, Princess. Go back to sleep._

So she went back to sleep. And her dream-eyes saw colors, bright and muted, a full spectrum: a balanced color wheel. And her fingers touched corporeal things, the textures and weight and shapes soothing against her skin. And her ears heard peaceful melody, soft and calming, full and glorious: exultant.

In daytime she freed the galaxy, tore the shackles of corruption and greed. And in her dreams, Leia had peace.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Written for Erin Darroch_


	12. Ficlet: Celebration

Han Solo awoke with unusually sharp clarity the morning after the Alliance's victory at Endor. The air was warm, the sheets beneath him were soft, the woman at his side was utterly breathtaking. And then, too, he'd imbibed entirely too much alcohol last night, which should have meant a thoroughly awful awakening.

But his eyes flew open, lightning fast and without the drowsy spell of early morning. He stared at the hull above him, completely aware of his surroundings and the events of the last few days. His rescue, the signing of his commission, the defeat of the Emperor.

The revelations.

 _Oh, hell_ , he thought. _The revelations._

He turned his head and looked at Leia. Eyes closed, hair a mess, breathing deeply. She would probably insist that she looked terrible but he adored this newfound intimacy. After three years of seeing her unassailable resiliency and perfect control, her humanity humbled and amused him. Who else saw this woman in such complete disarray? Not a damn soul.

He paused.

Who else had seen the devastation of last night? The emotional fallout of discovering the rotted trunk at the center of the Skywalker family tree?

Han blinked and sat up, careful not to wake Leia. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and stood, turning once to make sure she still slept peacefully. His chest clenched, thinking of her pain the night before and the pain she would feel when she opened her eyes. And he thought with some degree of wonder that he needed to deal with his own emotional shit before she awoke and needed him to be calm and stable. For her.

He threw on a pair of pants and left the cabin, wiping a hand over his face as the hatch breezed shut. The Falcon's deckplates were pleasantly warm against his feet—it was so much easier to tread barefoot on the ship when they were planetside—and he ambled to the galley, intent on a cup of caf. Hell if he knew how to do any emotional processing without caffeine.

He entered the galley, flipped on the caf machine and turned to survey the state of his ship. And there, quietly sitting at the navigation console and nursing his own mug of caf, was Luke Skywalker.

"Good morning," Luke said with a short nod.

Han frowned. "Morning, kid. What are you doing here?"

Han didn't know much about Jedi. If Luke's behavior since Han's release from carbonite was any example, the farmboy was supposed to be moping around by himself somewhere contemplating the nature of the universe, not sitting on the _Falcon_ with a cold cup of caf. Last night Han had told him that he and Leia would be turning in here; the kid knew there was a good chance he would encounter one or both of them.

Luke smiled and opened his hands. "Caf," he said.

"Seems a little too normal for a Jedi," Han pointed out. "Don't you have an existential crisis to have or something?"

He said it in a teasing tone, but, honestly, Han wasn't sure that he was really teasing. Luke confused him now. His eyes had too much in them, his priorities seemed unfathomable, and how the fuck was he Leia's twin brother? _How?_ Nothing about the kid made sense to him anymore.

Luke shrugged. "Caf first, crisis second."

Han eyed him, then turned to the caf machine and retrieved his own mug, planting himself at the holochess table. He hunched over his mug, bare torso leaning into the steam curling from his caf. "Good to know that some things never change."

Quiet settled on them and Han's mind whirled. He'd come out here for some distance from the children of Darth Vader, to work through his shock and confusion without either of them witnessing it.

Sometimes Luke had the worst timing.

"How is Leia?" Luke asked into the silence.

Han didn't look up. He wrapped his hands around his mug and felt the first chill sweep over him. Why hadn't he put on a shirt?

"She's sleeping."

"And before that? How was she?" Luke asked.

Han looked up sharply, the first flare of anger running through his chest. "You're her brother, Luke, not her priest."

Luke's face instantly reddened, embarrassment obvious in the way his eyes widened and then fell. "I never said I was," he said.

Han waved him off, aware that he had jumped to conclusions about Luke's intent. The depths of Han's distrust of this new Jedi-Luke were hitting him hard this morning.

"Sorry," Han muttered, turning his face back down to the caf. "We're all a little jumpy, I guess."

"You can say that again," Luke said. "I couldn't sleep at all last night. I kind of just wandered around the village, thinking."

Han nodded, lifting his mug to his lips and thinking that he'd had the same thought this morning. If Leia hadn't needed him last night, he might have done the same.

"It's a lot to think about," he said over the lip of his mug. "I've had some shocks in my life, but you two take the prize."

Luke laughed quietly. "Leia as my sister isn't that far-fetched for me. But the other one…."

He trailed off and Han grimaced. His whole plan to work through his thoughts about the other one had been shot to hell and he was a little pissed about it. He'd already managed to jump all over Luke once this morning, He didn't want to do it again.

At the very least, this Jedi had once been his friend, his little brother. Whatever he was now—and Han really didn't know what he was anymore—Luke deserved more consideration than the blind distrust that Han was spouting at the moment.

"I don't think it's a good idea to talk about the other one right now," Han said.

Luke looked up and held Han's gaze, the sincerity in those blue eyes so real that Han frowned and had to look down again.

"We'll have to deal with it eventually," Luke said.

"Not this morning," Han shot back, voice rising. "Not now."

"Why not?"

Han's unresolved, blistering anger raged against Luke's honest question, white hot against his better nature. "Why not?" he bellowed. "Why not? Because he fucking tortured her, Luke! Because he strapped me to a scan grid and lopped off your hand! Why the hell _should_ we have to deal with it now? Can't we take a break from all this shit?"

Luke blinked but didn't respond. Han scoffed and looked away, fingers gripping his mug and shoulders tight, anger running up and down his spine like electrical pulses. This was why he wanted to be alone when this happened. This was why he didn't want anybody to see his deep, dark anger. It wasn't fair to Luke to yell at him about his biological father any more than it was fair to leave Leia alone to her despair last night.

And as much anger as Han felt about these revelations, wouldn't Luke have more of a right to it than Han did? Shouldn't it be _Luke_ raging to _him_?

But rage wasn't logical. Feelings weren't logical. And Han was desperate to lead the path of destruction away from Leia, so Luke's number was up.

"She's broken, Luke," he said, quieter now. "She's a wreck."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luke nod.

Han wasn't done. "How the hell is she supposed to deal with that? This morning, tomorrow, _ever_? That she's related to that monster, that evil son of a bitch? _How_?"

"I don't know," Luke said.

Han threw up his hands. "That's great, kid. That solves it all, thanks."

Luke took a sip of his caf, eyeing Han carefully. Han knew he looked insane, eyes wide and voice heavy, but he couldn't seem to control his actions. Luke had opened up this box and he was damn well going to take whatever he got out of it. Han didn't have any say in the matter anymore.

"Leia is going to have to deal with it. And _you_ are going to have to deal with it," Luke said after a moment.

"Me?" Han laughed, bitterness loud. "I'm fine. I can handle anything."

"Han," Luke said, his eyes kind but far too insightful for Han's taste, "you're allowed to be angry, too."

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"Sure. That's why you're yelling at me first thing in the morning? Because you're fine?"

Han scowled. "I'm not the one—"

" _You are_ ," Luke said. "You have to deal with this just like we do. It's not simply about helping Leia. You have your own issues with him. And I think you know that."

Han sat back against the bench, his words gone. Of all the places to strike him, Luke had sure picked the one that inflicted the most damage. He was angry. He was full of anger at the unfairness of it all, at the sick way fate or the Force or the gods made good people like Luke and Leia into traumatized pawns. He was angry that this huge victory was tarnished for them all, that he wasn't still lying next to a happy, fulfilled Leia. He was angry that Luke had given the bastard a proper funeral, that Leia hadn't been able to get a few blaster bolts in the armor, that Han himself hadn't been able to express any of his own anger. He was angry that Leia was already talking about a press conference to reveal her paternity, that she had mentioned the Alderaanian diaspora, that she wondered if she should resign her position in High Command.

He was angry that the new life he wanted with the woman he loved now involved Darth fucking Vader.

Han looked at Luke, at Leia's twin brother, at the last Jedi in the galaxy and said the only truth he really knew. "She doesn't need me angry."

Luke pressed his lips together. "Not angry, no," he agreed. "But she might need you to be honest with her."

Careful not to misinterpret Luke's words again, Han glared at him. "I _am_ honest with her," he said. "She knows I'm pissed about this whole thing."

"Good. Tell her again," Luke said. "Over and over again until she really understands. She doesn't need your pity."

Han rolled his eyes. "You a therapist now?"

Luke grinned. "Just a brother, apparently. And someone who wishes he had what Leia has right now."

Han's heart seized again, a cold sadness gripping his lungs. He hadn't really considered Luke's isolationism, so focused on Leia as he was.

"You got us, kid. We may all be fucked up, but at least we're fucked up together."

Luke's grin turned genuine, honest. "Thanks, Han," he said, standing and walking his empty mug into the galley. Then he turned and retreated down the _Falcon_ 's ring corridor, his footsteps loud down the boarding ramp.

Han tapped the rim of his mug with a finger, thinking about Luke, about Leia, about the consequences of their parentage and the tough road ahead of them all. After a few minutes' reflection, he stood from the holochess table and moved back to his cabin, caf mug empty and waiting behind him.


	13. Ficlet: Running Late

General Han Solo took the corridors of _Home One_ at a jog, already late to a staff meeting. The halls were busy, humming, with people on the better end of the 0700 shift change. Their relieved voices whipped past him as his long legs took him down the officer's wing, past the small mess and into the turbolift.

His collar wasn't buttoned, his shirt was untucked on one side. He suspected his hair wasn't laying flat, either, though he didn't care.

He exhaled as the lift filled with beings, crammed in tight. Two Mon Calamari made garbled conversation in their native language to his right and a Sullustan sighed heavily to his left. Han leaned his head back against the lift wall and imagined better things, _Leia things_ , that made the residual carbonite-induced claustrophobia fade into a dull unease.

He was getting better at small spaces. That was a relief.

The lift doors opened to his level and Han fairly jumped into the empty corridor. He was late— _so late_ —for this meeting, and while that didn't bother him on principle, he didn't like keeping his subordinates waiting. It wasn't their fault that High Command had called this meeting at an ungodly hour.

It wasn't their fault that Leia had looked so goddamn edible this morning, either.

His boots made a loud _clacking_ sound down the corridor as he hurried to the designated briefing theater, and Han worked hard to dispel the memories of beautiful, unbound hair, a blue silk robe and bright red lipstick from his mind.

He skidded to a halt at the door as it opened and stepped inside. The theater wasn't completely full, empty seats lined the perimeter, but at least thirty beings all turned their heads to look at him as he sauntered down the center aisle. He ran a hand over his hair, tried to at least tamp it down a bit but didn't bother with his shirt. He wasn't known for his attention to detail when it came to proper military attire. The important thing was that he was here.

Even if he was fifteen minutes late.

"Morning," he began as he approached the podium. "Everyone here?"

A low murmur of assurance, with one loud _now we are_ shouted out from somewhere over by Antilles. Han threw an inappropriate hand gesture to his fellow Corellian and turned to the projection behind him.

"Alright, kids, your patrols are no-brainers today," he began, pointing to a crisscrossing series of trajectories. "Most of you are repeating assignments you've done in the past. All you have to do is not run into each other. Think you can handle that, Janson?"

Wes Janson, sitting just behind Antilles, nodded. "Will do, sir."

"Because that's been a problem before," Han said. "And while I don't mind losing your annoying ass, your ship's expensive."

"So's the lipstick on your neck, sir," Janson fired back.

Without thinking, Han's hand flew to the open collar of his shirt, further incriminating himself. _God damn it, Leia,_ he thought as he swiped at his throat. He pictured her sly smile as he ran out the door of her quarters, pictured the faces he'd passed on the way here, their wide eyes and slightly gaping mouths.

She'd done it on purpose, of course.

Looking at the amused faces around him, he tried to decide how to handle this. It wasn't like his relationship with Leia was a secret. And it wasn't like he minded every single person in this room knowing exactly where he'd come from and whose lipstick he was currently sporting.

And, hey, he'd really, _really_ liked that lipstick she'd been wearing.

His hand slipped from his neck, he opened his arms wide and grinned like a madman as his subordinates whistled and applauded. He dipped his head in acknowledgement while the kids had their fun and then calmly directed them back to their assignments.

Hell, there were worse things than people knowing he had a great sex life, wasn't there?


	14. Ficlet: Love 'Em and Leave 'Em

_This ficlet is M-rated for sexual content._

* * *

Beautiful, playful and stunning in her disarray, Leia Organa perched on the edge of the _Falcon's_ galley counter, legs bare beneath the shirt she'd stolen from his closet. Han Solo leaned against the hull nearby, one foot crossed over the other. _What a sight,_ he thought. There was very little in the galaxy that looked as enticing as the princess, disheveled and properly adored, late at night aboard his ship. Not because she had to be, not because she had nowhere else to go. But because she'd gotten out of her council meetings early and caught him by surprise an hour before they'd planned to go to dinner.

The next few hours had been … good.

 _Very_ good. They'd skipped dinner entirely and had wound up here in search of food instead. Han was not apologetic about it in the slightest.

Leia swung her feet idly and popped a piece of fruit into her mouth, bringing him back to the present. "I swear, you have a gift for finding fresh food."

"It's called a market."

She blinked at him in false innocence. "Oh, is that where food comes from? I just assumed my servants—"

Han pushed off the hull and moved to stand next to her. "Yeah, yeah. Real cute. I get it."

Leia smiled. "My original comment still stands. Does Chewie help you?"

He reached out and brushed his palm up the smooth skin of her thigh, slightly tanned during a recent diplomatic trip to Corellia. He was still pissed that he'd been stuck on Coruscant at the time; Corellian traditional political garb had a higher hemline than most conservative systems did and he would've enjoyed some time alone with her on the Gold Beaches. "We had a steady gig early on, freighting starfruit from Plagirii to the Corporate Sector. Had to help with quality control sometimes to get paid."

"Ah," she said, and bit into another piece of fruit. Sometimes it still amazed him that this was his life now, discussing unglamorous smuggling gigs with a half-dressed princess on his ship. Talk about an undeserved windfall. "How long was the job?"

"About six months," he said. He couldn't remember exactly; it'd been at least six years since then. Time flew by when you fought a war and won.

"Interesting," Leia said, and licked the juice off her lips. "Chewie told me once that the only reason you bothered to stay with one job for more than a month was because you'd found somebody you liked."

He eyed her carefully. "Liar."

"Me or him?"

"Both of you, for different reasons," he said, coming to stand in front of her. Her knees hit his upper thighs and he slid his other hand up her leg. "There wasn't anyone on that run."

Leia snagged another piece of fruit and offered it to him. He leaned in and bit into it from her fingers, then sucked the juice off her fingers quickly, grinning. Her eyes glittered but she turned away to pick up another piece of fruit. "I see. One of your portside harems, then?"

He threw back his head and laughed. _Portside harem_ sounded like something she'd read from a novel. It certainly wasn't how he would have phrased it. In reality he'd never been one of the _love-'em-and-leave-'em_ types. By that time he hadn't liked entanglements; when the opportunity arose for a tryst, it was usually with another pilot or a bartender who knew the ropes. People he could trust not to care too deeply. People who'd been used to that life long before he'd shown up. "You're romanticizing my past."

"Am I?" Leia arched an eyebrow, challenging. "It sounds like there was very little romance to it."

She raised the fruit to her lips. Before she could bite into it, he leaned in and nabbed it between his teeth. He smiled as he ate it. "Nope. No romance," he said. "Just, uh, _the act_ and then an amicable goodbye."

He'd stayed away from paying for sex. He'd stayed away from drunk, vulnerable girls. He'd stayed away from men who expected anything from him. It had been both easier for his lifestyle and morally agreeable to him. He looked specifically for the people that were old enough, sane enough, and experienced enough to know how to live the way he did. Emotions had never been a part of it, not really. Not the way it was now, with Leia. Sex for sex's sake was a way of life, an appetite to be sated. Or it was a distraction, a way to protect himself from the misery of an isolated existence. Any chance to forget, for a moment, what life really looked like.

But looking at Leia now, with her incredible eyes and the outright _goodness_ in them, he couldn't remember why that had been appealing. Or necessary.

" _Amicable goodbyes_ ," she quoted, scrunching her nose. "That sounds horrible."

He tilted his head, nonplussed at her tone. "I said _amicable,_ didn't I? Nobody got hurt."

She waved her hand. "That you _know_."

Han looked at her carefully as she ate another piece of fruit, momentarily stunned. The conversation had been lighthearted, amusing. He'd been teasing her and she'd been teasing back. And then, suddenly, she wasn't teasing anymore. "Hey," he said, squeezing her legs and pulling them to either side of his hips so he could stand between them, closer to her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she said automatically. He gave her a specific kind of _yeah, right_ look and waited. She sighed. "No, really. It's just odd to me, to think of you with these people, doing what we do. And then you just…. what? Went your separate ways? Without a second thought?"

He didn't know what to say to that. What he'd done before and what he did with Leia were in two completely separate categories as far as he was concerned. Yes, she was right, that's how it had been. No second thoughts, no shame. There wasn't _time_ for shame. And, too, why would you feel ashamed for a mutually-consensual good time that ate up an hour or two and made the galaxy seem a little less awful than it always did?

How to explain?

He cleared his throat, squeezed her legs. "You know how in the Alliance, on the worst nights, sometimes it felt like the whole base was a reminder that we were all about to die? That it was useless to hope for anything better than a quick death?"

She nodded.

"And all you wanted to do was forget? About everything, about responsibilities and how pointless it all was? Do you remember that feeling?"

She nodded again.

"That's how it felt. You did it because for a second you weren't scum, you weren't an orphan or a criminal or a lowlife. And _everybody did it,_ Leia. What else were you supposed to do?"

She watched him, eyes discerning. The edge of anger was gone, the flair of an oncoming storm dissipated. In its stead was warmth and the whole of her empathy as she tried to follow his words carefully.

"What did you do on those nights?" he asked her, trying to take the focus off himself.

Leia answered immediately, her words. "Worked. Fought. Prayed that what we were doing _wasn't_ pointless."

Of course she had. He leaned in and kissed her because nothing— _nothing_ —in the galaxy was as incredible as Leia, and she reminded him of it every damn day. He should have known that this would be a false equivalency. Maybe if Leia had been in his shoes she _wouldn't_ have fallen into that spiral of baseless sex and trustless companionship.

When he leaned back, her eyes were closed and he could taste her fruit juice on his tongue. He lifted a hand from her leg to the side of her face, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Not all of us are as strong as you are," he said, low and quiet. "Not all of us know what we're fighting for."


	15. Ficlet: Healing

He is broken. Cold. Barely breathing. Strung out on an impersonal medbunk, his eyelids fluttering and his lips cracked and bleeding.

She sits beside him, grips his hand with long practice and the words of the medic who'd slipped out of the room moments ago.

 _Imminent recovery. A matter of rest and repair now. Out of the woods._

She lifts his hand to her mouth, presses a kiss against his open palm.

"Did you hear that, flyboy? she whispers; kisses along the lines of his wrist, the pulse that make her heart sing.

Strong. Sure. Vital.

Leia exhales against his skin, presses her lips into his fingertips, trying to implant her worry, her devotion, her trust and faith in him.

"You are the most ridiculous man alive, do you know that?" she said. "Do you have any clue how lucky you are?"

To have survived? To have come home to the woman who loves him with such ferocity that she has sat by his bedside since the moment they brought him in, clinging to life, from Chewie's arms and the _Falcon_ 's ramp?

She pulls her chair closer to him. "Do you know how angry I am at you?"

For making her heart stop dead in its tracks?

"I love you," she whispers against his hand. "And if you ever do this to me again, I will kill you myself. Do you understand me?"

A flutter of eyelashes and finally— _finally_ —Leia can see wry, beautiful green eyes. There is pain there, and she is mindful of his injuries and the terrifying extent of his mortality. But he is looking at her like she is the most incredible thing he's ever seen and she can't take her eyes off of him.

A tired, pained grin and then the voice she needed after her hours of worry. Warm, deep, honest and brave: Han in tone and intent. "Sure do, princess. I sure do.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Written for Corellian Smuggler._


	16. Ficlet: The Lead

_This ficlet is M-rated for sexual content._

* * *

Slow.

A slow smile. Full lips and long hair and blazing hot expression: she looked at him through the black sweep of her eyelashes. Leia's eyes were fire on his. Han knew, _he knew_ , she was in control now. Without reservation and without any argument from him.

"Come here," she said, crooking a finger.

He tried to maintain his confident swagger, but the way she was staring at him made it tough. Her dark eyes were locked on his, deep and sharp and knowing. Sometimes when she looked at him like this, he thought about power, about strength and control. Seduction by way of capability. There wasn't another being in the universe that presented such an enigmatic appeal to him.

"You issuing royal decrees?" he asked. His voice was tight, strained.

In response, she crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. Wearing a simple dress, deep red and modest, the spirit of her sexuality looked effortless. She wasn't hanging all over him. Leia never did: she never _had to._ She was the master of her own cool fire, and his blood ran hot as he looked at her lips, her eyes, her bare arms resting comfortably on the arms of the chair.

Leia in charge was a thing of beauty. Leia in charge was like hanging onto a hurtling speeder: you just hoped you survived the experience and then desperately wanted to do it again.

"Absolutely," she answered him, standing up and walking toward him.

Years had passed since they had started this back-and-forth game. While he'd had more experience in seduction than she did at the beginning, she'd quickly picked up her own unique playbook. After a few rounds, Leia had become delightfully unpredictable. Secure in their relationship now, she was every bit the calm, confident woman in their bed as she was out of it.

He'd misjudged the dress. As she moved, the silk clung to her body the way water did when she came out of the shower. The high neckline had deceived him: she was covered up and on full display simultaneously and something about that contradiction punched him hard in the gut. Her shoulders were bare, toned arms hanging at her sides in feigned nonchalance.

Her eyes were still burning, though. Dark. Bare. Unfathomably beautiful. She _killed_ him.

"Interesting," she murmured as she drew closer to him. "You aren't supposed to ignore a royal decree."

Han tilted his head, confused for a moment. Then he remembered the thread of their conversation and hitched his thumbs into his belt. "Never been one to follow orders," he said, eyeing Leia as she stopped right in front of him.

"You don't say?" she said.

Placing both hands on his chest, Leia leaned in and walked him backwards to the empty dining room chair behind him. He sat, hands on her hips as she climbed astride him and pushed her fingers through his hair.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to lend a hand," he said. His voice was barely a croak, but he tried to keep a cocky grin in place as his hands found the silk beneath the silk, his palms gliding up the back of her thighs under the dress.

Using her grip, she tilted his head back and rose up until her eyes were just above his. A role reversal in height. It made him grin.

"Any requests?" she asked. "Before you start obeying?"

Han watched her eyes, not feeling diminished in the least. "Not a single one," he answered. "Go for it."

She dipped her head and sat back down on his thighs, bringing her mouth to the skin just above his pulse point. He groaned, feeling the sweep of her tongue just under his jaw, creating a sharp torque in his chest, a force of desire as hot as a star. He moved his hands from the back of her thighs to the swell of her hips, pulling her closer to him. The silk of her dress slid along the back of his hands and she moved her attention to the other side of his jaw.

God, but she was brutal with that mouth of hers.

"What's your plan?" he asked. Her lips found a place on his Adam's apple that made him jerk in the chair. "Bed?"

At his own suggestion, Han's brain immediately devolved into fantasy, imagining her slight weight on top of him, rocking her hips quickly–so quickly–a sheen of sweat across her neck, over her breasts. Her voice, breathy and low, demanding that he stay _there, yes, there, oh…._

"No," she mumbled, and swept her lips up to his ear, rising up on her knees again. "I don't want the bed."

He leaned back into the chair, letting his elbows rest on the wooden arms. The chair wasn't large; leaning back gave them the dual advantage of forcing Leia's knees to slide closer to his hips and her arms to grab and hold onto his biceps.

"Hmm," he said. "Shower?"

His mind spiraled again: his hands wrapped around her thighs, pressing her against the fresher wall, water sluicing over her skin, deep, her arms around his neck, her voice crying out as he went deeper deeper _deeper—_

"No," she said again, and her tongue swept over the shell of his ear. She snaked her hands from his biceps to his shoulder to the sides of his head, tipping it back so that he was looking at the ceiling before he closed his eyes. Between sweeps of her tongue, he could hear her deep breaths, could feel the expanse of her chest pressed against him. "Not the shower, either."

"Huh," he said, closing his eyes. "Okay. Where then?"

She paused, pulled away, breathed against his lips until he opened his eyes again. Her eyes came to him first, then her lips and the soft, dangerous smile he fucking _adored._

 _My wife,_ he thought. _My insane, brilliant wife._

"Follow me," she whispered and Han didn't dream of doing anything else.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Written for HanOrganaas._


	17. Ficlet: Humming

Humming. She felt them _humming._

When she closed her eyes and cast her awareness into the center of her body, she didn't see anything, didn't hear anything. The sensation wasn't static enough to be an image or a sound. They were _movement,_ the brush of displaced cells, new cells, against her own. They didn't move how she moved, their own particular energy thrumming among hers. They were visceral, these tiny points of life. Not as simple as their size, or their weight, or their genetics. They existed, explicable because they moved, not because they _were_ but because they _did._

They didn't breathe—not really, not the way she did. They didn't have awareness of themselves. But they moved: they fluttered, they _hummed._

She imagined them like ions, charged particles flung into the restless infinity of time and space. Their kinetic signatures were the only way she knew they existed. She couldn't see them, she couldn't hear them. But, yes. They were there. Two spinning, charged, humming things.

Alive and growing. Not part of her and still, yes, part of her.

She opened her eyes. The bedroom was dark, cool, quiet. The threads of the sheets around her were soft against her skin. Han's breath rustled her hair against her neck, his forearm wrapped loosely around the skin of her stomach. He held her as he slept, a loose embrace, and Leia was so desperately in need of his comfort at a time like this because… _because…._ She was pregnant.

She closed her eyes again, searching.

It was like going down a staircase in pitch blackness, pressing one foot to the next stair in a tentative effort not to cascade down. Slowly, slowly. Sidestep. Misstep. Try again. Her senses were spread wide, her whole self open. She could feel the beat of her own heart, the blood rush through her veins, the air push into her lungs. She tried another step, a deeper step, skipping one and jumping into the dark air with the hope of landing on the next stair. Faith, maybe, that she would find the landing without seeing where she was going.

 _Humming._

Her heart squeezed and her eyes opened.

"Han," she breathed. "Han. Wake up."

The arm thrown over her stomach pressed into her skin and his nose bumped into the crown of her head. "We're okay. Go back to sleep," he muttered.

Her free arm wrapped around the one that held her and she pressed her fingers between his. "Wake up," she said, a little louder. "Please."

He groaned but pushed away from her, stretching his long legs between hers as she turned around. "What's going on?" he asked. "You okay?"

His voice was so full of exhaustion, heavy and sluggish, that she hesitated. What _exactly_ was she going to say to him? What she'd felt wasn't even remotely within his grasp to understand. If this was female intuition— _mother's intuition, oh god_ —or the Force...

She looked at him, his sleepy green-gray eyes steady and half-lidded as he scooted closer to her. Down, too, so that their heads were even on her pillow. She watched him, the beloved line of his jaw, the broken edge of his nose, the scar tearing through his chin.

She watched him blink. He was so close to her that she could see the pinch of muscle as his eyelid closed, caught the bright reveal of green-gray as it opened again. She thought of energy, of ions. Of movement and humming. The pressure of new cells against hers, distinctive because they weren't _only_ hers. The movement felt different, had an urgency to the thrum that seemed… not foreign, but new….

"I'm pregnant," she said.

Stillness. Green-gray wide open. Not a breath.

She hung on a precipice, trusting that the next stair was there. Vulnerable, susceptible. She was wide, wide open. They'd talked about this, even _planned for_ it in some respect. But nothing— _nothing!_ —had prepared her for the intense, white-hot sense of possession she already felt. They _thrummed._ They moved. Distinctive, not because they were half-hers, but because they were also half-his.

Oh, but…. He'd found his voice. "Really?" he said, sitting up, weight on his hands, looking down on her with sleepy mania in his eyes. " _Really?"_

She nodded.

He lifted a hand, pressed his palm against the side of her head. "You're sure? You took a test?"

Leia leaned into his hand, trying to decide if she was imagining the excitement in his eyes. "Not yet. I'll go to the medcenter tomorrow. But I—Han, I…."

"You know?" he asked.

She nodded again, watched his eyes slide to the side. Leia let him think, trying without success to tamp down her bubbling joy. All the worry about her biological legacy, about her work and what it might do to a defenseless child— _children!_ —didn't suddenly fade. The anxiety about her fitness to be a mother was real, absolute.

But she had faith. She'd grown in the years since Endor, broadened her scope and tried to take in the larger picture. She'd _tried._ It was difficult and she'd struggled. And sometime between the hatred of her genetics and building a new government, she'd decided to let the chips fall where they may.

She was so blissfully _happy_ about this. Terrified, of course, oh _god,_ terrified. But these little charged particles existed, and all she could do was marvel at their movement, independent of her or Han.

Han's eyes met hers. He opened his mouth, shut it again. She hung on the precipice, waiting, trusting.

And then he smiled so brilliantly that her chest cracked wide open, faith restored.

"A kid," he said, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. Leia ran her fingers through his hair, thinking _kids, Han, kids,_ but wanting to let her husband have a moment for this joy alone. She'd get the test done tomorrow, and she would reveal that little detail later. Han deserved time to process one thing at a time.

He moved the hand on her head down to her stomach, pressing softly, like he was afraid he would hurt his child. Leia couldn't help but smile wider at his care. She laid her hand on top of his, just above the humming, and looked up. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

His life hadn't prepared him well for this, she knew. And he was bound to have his moments of self-doubt; he had no benchmark for how to deal with children.

But he lived up to her faith, without fail. Always.

He smiled at her now, hesitant, but standing on the edge of happiness. He wouldn't jump off that last stair tonight, she knew. This would be a slow burn for him. But he was a faithful man at the very center of his being, faithful in his own capability, in _her,_ in their combined ability to handle what was thrown at them.

So she was not surprised when he kissed her again and said, with deep resonance and a brightness to his eyes that she remembered from their wedding, "You kidding, Worship? I'm on cloud nine."


	18. Ficlet: Q and A

"Do you know what I want?" she said, her hair trailing down her shoulders in a recently-unbraided mess.

She sat in the _Falcon's_ cockpit, in the captain's seat. Her bare feet hung over the side of the chair and she looked up at him with a small smile. He leaned over the back of the chair, folded his arms over the top. The starfield behind her was transcendent, sure, but something about the way this devastating woman so freely took over the space she inhabited was beyond his capacity to understand.

"What's that?" he asked.

She shifted onto her knees and leaned in until her chin rested on his folded arms. Her eyes were playful and mischievous as she looked up at him. "I want you to tell me what made you come back to Yavin 4."

"You _what_?" he said, immediately confused. Wasn't she looking at him with her bedroom eyes? Wasn't she smiling at him like she knew every damn secret in the universe and she was doling them out at her convenience? Wasn't this conversation going to end in their bunk? _Wasn't it?_

"Why did you come back to Yavin 4 ten years ago?"

His eyes shifted to look at the starfield he'd dismissed earlier. To starboard was the looming moon in question, behind it the gas giant planet. Whirling around the moon was a smooth line of Death Star debris trapped in orbit. He'd helped create that debris ring a decade ago, before this woman in front of him had been his wife and the mother of their children. Before they'd helped destroy the galactic order. Before they'd fought an insane war. Before they'd _won_ the insane war.

Why had he come back?

Han shifted his eyes back to Leia's, considered her question. There were lots of reasons. Because he personally didn't like the idea of space stations that could destroy whole planets. Because he'd watched an old man sacrifice his life for a kid he'd barely known. Because he had felt Chewie's eyes on him from the moment they'd left the Alliance hangar bay.

Because it'd been the right thing to do.

"I don't know," he finally said, looking at her. "But I'm sure glad I did."


	19. Drabble: Burn

She was fire. A flame in his arms, unpredictable and wild. She felt white-hot against his skin; his heart stuttered, overwhelmed. He was beautifully scarred, burned and reburned, over and over again, ad infinitum as long as she held him. Moments and decades, happily surrendering to their inferno.

"Han," she murmured and he closed his eyes. Reality blurred. He was young, and this was a quiet fantasy. He was older and this was a novelty: the burn of his life. He was older still and this was not new, yet they still blistered.

She was still fire; he still burned.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Written for Erin Darroch_


	20. Ficlet: Rumor

"You're busted."

Leia looked up from her datapad. Her eyes were a bit sluggish; she'd been reading this expenditure report for the better part of two hours. But even though he was blurry, she could still make out the larger-than-life form of her husband, standing near the front door. His hands were on his hips and he looked annoyed.

"How so?" she asked.

Han walked further into the room, sidestepping both her shoes and the stuffed nerf Anakin had left on the floor before Luke had taken him and the twins to a surprise lunch. "Holonews says you're leaving me for the prince."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Which prince?"

"You got more than one?" He dropped to the conform couch and put his boots up on the table in front of them.

Leia turned to him, tucked a leg underneath her and set the datapad in her lap. "Han, I think we need to talk," she said.

"Great. Here we go," he said. She was amused that his face didn't crack at all. If she didn't know him better, if they didn't know this routine by heart, she might have been worried. "You want me out of here by seventeen hundred tonight?"

"That's right. The princes are coming over at six."

His lips flattened into a straight line and he nodded. Leia almost laughed. "Been a good run, Princess," he said, slapping his knees and standing up. "Let me know when I can see the kids."

"Of course," she said. Then she tossed the datapad in her lap onto the floor near Anakin's toy. "They'll be back in an hour. I don't suppose you'd mind a proper farewell to our marriage?"

The only real break in his face was a quick lopsided smile before he covered it up with a reluctant nod. "Sure," he said. "You'll be a nice warm-up for the girl I'm apparently sleeping with."

"Uh-huh," she nodded, reaching for his hand. "Sounds good."

Leia pulled and Han fell and she was grateful, as always, that they shared a sense of humor about the rumor mill.


	21. Ficlet: Ducking Out

"We need to get up."

Leia said it with all the obligatory industriousness that she had been raised to wield like a blaster, but her heart wasn't in it. Comfort settled around her, blanketing her husband and her in a lackadaisical shroud. The lights in their living area were doused to a low glow, the conform couch beneath them dipped as Han shifted behind her. The heavy rain hitting the transparisteel windows felt like a ballad.

"Nope," Han said from behind her.

She ran a hand over his forearm, wrapped around her stomach. "We have people waiting for us."

So many people were waiting for them. Friends and family, the political hangers-on, vague acquaintances: the last guest list Leia had seen had had almost four hundred names on it.

And that had been _after_ she nixed another three hundred names that the event planner had initially proposed.

"Do…. we care?" Han asked against her ear. His breath whispered through her hair.

That was an excellent question. It had been a difficult week: Han had been gone for most of it on an exploratory mission with Luke and Chewie. Leia was used to periodic separations from him—though he was technically retired from the military, Han Solo was to this day still one of the most capable people in service to the New Republic—but the timing had been less than ideal.

Their tenth anniversary didn't loom large for Leia, but as the date had neared she'd realized how much she wanted to celebrate the day with him. Not because of this party, not because of the half-disguised political statement the upper echelon of the New Republic wanted it to be. She just missed him. After ten years of marriage, she still _liked_ him, liked spending time with him.

Also, as Han had pointed out, it was tempting to thumb their noses at the many people who had told them they wouldn't last.

But still…. They needed to get up.

"We have to be there in an hour," she said, turning her head to look at him. "We aren't going to make it if we don't get up."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine by me. I hate these people."

"It's a party in our honor."

" _This_ is the party I want," he said, obstinate. "Fuck 'em."

Leia laughed, rolling onto her back and smoothing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "If we go, you can tell them that to their faces."

He grinned but shook his head. "It's the weekend. Nobody gets to make me do anything I don't want to do on the weekend."

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "And what exactly do you want to do, hotshot? Take the _Falcon_ and disappear?"

Grin still firmly in place, Han leaned down and kissed her, lips soft and familiar. Years together and he still made her heart race, roguish insouciance to authority thrilling. She smiled into his kiss, ran her hand through his hair and to the side of his face.

When he pulled away, his smirk was still brilliant. "Excellent idea, Your Worship. Let's go."


	22. Ficlet: Gawk

_Gawk_

Pre-ESB, Hoth

* * *

The boarding ramp was solid under her feet and Leia thought about how it might be the _only_ part of the _Millennium Falcon_ that was consistently unbroken. The hyperdrive sometimes failed, the sublight drives, the navicomputer, shields, turrets, inertial compensator, targeting, booster drives, life-support system and the _backup_ life-support system: all had all failed Han Solo and Chewbacca while Leia had been aboard.

 _Hunk of junk, indeed,_ Leia thought fondly.

The hatch was open at the top of the ramp and she stepped through with a huff. Hoth was _cold,_ damn it, and the _Falcon_ always felt like a reprieve. Funny that the environmental controls never seemed to fail on-planet, only when the threat of freezing in vacuum loomed.

She caught herself with a small smile, tucked it into her cold mask. The _Falcon_ was warm, humming beneath her feet, as she made a circuitous route to the hold. She hoped Han was there and not ... showering or sleeping or in a more _personal state._ The hold was safer than his cabin. Or the cockpit. Or the turrets.

Things had progressed in a confusing way the past few days. Han had acted with a modicum of civility, had been kind, funny yesterday when she had offered him the list of available supply runs. And she hadn't known how to respond without the sarcastic quips and the cocked eyebrow. He had a habit of eliciting the most confrontational reflexes she had and without those reflexes she had to stagger into a sweeter disposition, too. And what the hell was _that,_ anyway?

She shook her head and doubled down on her resolve. She was here to test the waters of this newer friendship, to see if it had held strong through the dark night. And if it had….

Well. She wasn't betting on it.

"Han?" she called as the first notes of a thumping bass hit her ears. _Music?_

No response. Leia walked through the ring corridor, following the bass-line, wondering if this was the first time she'd ever caught the crew of the _Falcon_ playing music. She couldn't quite place the song, snatches of muffled lyrics hit her ears but they weren't familiar. It had the tenor of Core-World pop and that nearly forced her smile.

The first thing she saw was skin. Glistening skin, tan in the darker lights of the old ship, rippling as if by exertion. The sight glimmered and then came into focus and now there was a chest, pectoral muscles, a spattering of hair. A column of muscles expanding and contracting under, yes, _exertion_ because she had to follow the skin up and down as it completed a chin-up.

Leia's mouth was dry.

She followed the line of skin to arms, powerful arms, biceps and triceps and forearms and _shoulders_ oh my goddess _shoulders,_ round and straining as his body moved up and down, up and down. Isolated from the extension of his arms, his shoulders were steady, only under strain because of the sweat that dotted the bronze.

He was turned slightly away from her and now she ran her eyes from shoulders down to the smooth line of his back. Ripples of muscle entranced her, she could feel her eyes widen, felt her mouth open, a harsh exhale. Smooth, tanned skin, touchable, kissable, in the light.

She thought about skin, about lips against that skin. Thought about hair tickling her tongue, thought about fingertips on muscle, pressing in, feeling give and pull and action. Thought about wrapping around that body like a Chandrilian watersnake, but no, no, not a snake. Like a breathless lover, like a partner.

 _No._

Eyes moved downward to a tapered waist, begging for a palm. She could grip that skin, run her fingernails over it, watch him shiver, watch that skin prickle. And then from there she could slip down, down, down beneath the edge of the line of trousers. Where was the belt? Oh, hell, _where was the belt?_ Because that was always the stop in her thinking when her thoughts tumbled into this hurricane. She could let herself watch the line of skin but the belt was the warning signal for her to stop. Stop, Leia. Stop.

But no belt. No thick, leather line of warning. Cotton, blue today, hanging low enough to see small indents in the left hip. Tan skin from shoulder to fingers, from chest down to forbidden hips. _Goddess,_ he was bronze all over, she could tell now, because without that belt, hidden skin was revealed.

She licked her lips. Bit into cheek. Flexed her jaw to keep quiet but the small, wordless sound came out anyway, breathy, low, and full of need.

The muscles all contracted, all of them, seized in triggered response. Chest to hands, and now she could also see abdominal definition and that was when her brain stopped, at the vee of muscle suddenly available to her because he turned, jumped down, boots hitting the deck.

Her eyes shifted up, found his, the acknowledgement that they both existed in this moment together.

"Princess?"

His voice.

She couldn't think, why couldn't she think? All she could process was sensation, the deep notes from his throat, that skin that begged for her lips, her tongue, the sweat that wetted the ends of his rebellious hair, falling into his green eyes, wide and on hers, oh _sweet mother_ how did the bottle-green erupt into such heat when they found hers ….?

"Leia," he said.

Her name triggered something else, and it was enough of a jolt to quick-start her mind.

"Yes?" she said, automatic, a response, and she wanted to kick herself.

"You okay?"

She was not.

"I… have a question about the mission tomorrow," she said.

She wondered what that question was. Her brain and her mouth were not on speaking terms at the moment.

He waited, then cocked an eyebrow. "Ask away."

She licked her lips again, and her brain suddenly clunked back into working order. "Do we need additional fuel for the _Falcon_?"

The bottle-green slid to the side and came back to her face as he finished his mental calculations. "Nah. The auxiliary fuel cells should be good."

She nodded, strained to keep her eyes on his and no lower. No lower, Leia. Definitely no lower. "Good," she said with a nod.

The conversation, whatever it had been, ended and Leia's warning bells erupted entirely too late. She turned on her heel and tried an escape velocity that was noticeably hurried. So hurried, in fact, that her boot slipped.

And she fell. Embarrassingly slow, like a dream. She had more mental focus in this two second window than she had had in the past minute. She could take in the rivets in the _Falcon_ 's hull, saw the seam of alloy, heard her exhale over the bass notes _and where was the music coming from, anyway?_

Warmth surrounded her, that was all she knew. Warmth and skin, slick with sweat, arms wrapped around her torso, caught her. And now she could taste his sweat in the air, the musk and addictive salt-tang of exertion and effort. It surrounded her, a most delicious suffocation, and she wanted to fill her lungs with it.

She closed her eyes, embarrassed, but let him surround her, hold her weight for the briefest of seconds before she pushed away. Turned. Stepped to create distance but there was no distance now that she'd been there. Like a blow to her stomach, the mark had been made, fantasy turned to reality, and now there was fodder for the daydreams she hadn't realized she had harbored.

"Sure you're okay?" he asked, and no, oh no, there was humor in the bottle-green.

She was caught. He _knew._

"Fine," she spit out.

Defense system slammed back down with the force of Echo Base's shield doors. There was no warmth, there was no sweat. A pilot had answered her question and she had so much more to do..

Her steps matched the rhythm of that damn music and she took her leave, almost to the bend in the corridor before he spoke.

"You asked me that question yesterday."

She stopped. Took a breath. Summoned all her thoughts into one blasted response. "This ship does not inspire confidence, Captain. The answer might have changed."

Her tone was so haughty, _so_ obnoxiously superior that it almost protected her from the sound of Han's low laugh that accompanied her around the corridor, out the hatch, and down the reliable ramp.

Oh, no, she thought, over and over, reliable in its intensity. Oh, no.


End file.
